


to be your blood, to be let in

by inconocible



Series: swimming in sevens, slow dancing in seconds [5]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Art History, Blind Kanan Jarrus, Blind jokes, But includes brief spoilers up to the end of season 4, Drunk Ezra Bridger, Drunk Sabine Wren, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e21-22 Twilight of the Apprentice, Episode: s03e05 Hera's Heros, Episode: s03e08 Iron Squadron, Episode: s04e10 Jedi Night, Episode: s04e14 A Fool's Hope, Episodes that this revolves around:, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Growing Up, Haircuts, Kanan Jarrus Best Dad Ever, Listen - this is my love letter to Kanan Jarrus: Soft Space Dad in early season 3, Non-Linear Narrative, Parental Affection, Set primarily in early season 3, Sibling affection, Soft and beautiful family feelings, Space fam best fam, This is Sabine navigating her grief and her relationships with her space fam in early season 3, dad jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 13:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13905387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inconocible/pseuds/inconocible
Summary: As Hera speaks, everyone relaxes, Ezra leaning into Kanan’s left side, Kanan and Hera’s hands joined on top of the painting, Sabine snuggled into Hera’s right side, the warmth of Zeb’s arm over her head, Chopper sitting at Ezra’s feet. Sabine closes her eyes, lets Hera’s voice roll over her, through her, and tries to commit the moment to her permanent memory, perfect, crystalline.





	to be your blood, to be let in

**Author's Note:**

> don’t you just  
> don’t we all just  
> [want to be together](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OdrSSRYgfVk)

It starts with Hera’s childhood home exploding.

-

No, it starts with a list.

Two lists, really, a month or so before the explosion. Right after Sabine gets back from her mission at the flight academy.

She sends the lists to their datapads.

“Chapters from… classical art texts?” Ezra asks, cocking his head to one side.

“Oil-based paints? Recycled canvas? A paint… knife?” Zeb asks, scratching his ear. “You’ve got a perfectly good knife already. Two of them, in fact.”

“Guys,” Sabine huffs.

“What are you gonna do with all this stuff?” Ezra asks.

“I’m thinking of trying something new,” Sabine says. “I read about it on the Holonet.”

“So, if you read about it on the Holonet,” Ezra says, “you need these texts… why?”

“Because I want to learn a little more before I try it,” Sabine says.

“I don’t get it,” Ezra says, eyeing the list on his datapad skeptically.

“Why do you need a new knife?” Zeb asks.

“Look, _you_ ask Leia for copies of the texts,” she says, talking with her hands, starting to get frustrated, gesturing at Ezra, “and _you_ help me look for the supplies the next time we’re at a big market,” gesturing at Zeb. “It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

Zeb tilts his head from one side to the other. “You’re making it complicated,” he mutters.

“Ask _Leia_?” Ezra parrots back, as though Sabine has just said the sentence in some language he doesn’t comprehend.

“Yeah, ask her, because she can very easily make copies of all of these texts at the university in Aldera,” Sabine says, her patience running thin at Ezra and Zeb’s complete lack of comprehension, at the confused look they share.

“Come on Ezra, I _know_ you still chat with her sometimes,” Sabine adds. The tips of Ezra’s ears turn red.

“Ah, after the princess, eh, kid?” Zeb jokes, making a grab for Ezra, but his closely-cropped hair presents less of an easy target for Zeb’s grasp, and he feints to Zeb’s left, barely avoiding the inevitable headlock and noogie to follow.

“Guys!” Sabine says, rolling her eyes. “Just help a girl make some art here!”

-

No, it starts before the lists. Months before the explosion.

It starts with the hair thing, maybe.

The day Kanan and Ezra had come home, irrevocably changed, almost a month ago now, she had slunk back to her room, locked the door, and, weeping, had bleached her hair completely white, out of tradition and respect and grief, the color suddenly gone from her hair and from the rest of the world, along with Ahsoka’s life. Along with Kanan’s smile, and his sight. Along with Ezra’s spirit.

Since, she’s been trying to hold Hera and Zeb together, trying to hold herself together despite the melancholic fog hanging around her, trying not to think about how empty the base sounds without Ahsoka and Rex’s laughter, without Kanan and Ezra’s banter.

It’s been hard.

She’s been sleeping horribly, either way too much – 20 or more hours at a time – or not at all. She’s realized she has to be exhausted to her core before she can fall asleep, because every time she tries to sleep, the blankness behind her eyelids, the nothingness she knows smothers Kanan now, overwhelms her.

So she’s tired now, as usual, perched on the roof of the _Ghost_ in the only time of day that Atollon actually feels cool and comforting, reminds her even a little of Mandalore’s cold climate: The pre-dawn hour, the sun not yet risen, but everything tingling with the feeling of newness.

It would have been beautiful to wake up to, if she hadn’t already been awake for nearly 45 hours.

She sighs. It isn’t fair. Ezra seems to be suddenly handling everything better now than she is somehow, her grief lingering longer than his, Kanan’s mental and emotional absence upsetting her more now than him.

Case in point: She spots Ezra below her, up before dawn again, dragging a very annoyed Chopper out of the _Ghost_ to throw rocks at him while he practices with his lightsaber. Since rebuilding his saber a couple weeks ago, Ezra has abruptly seemed back to almost his old self, but fiercer, more serious, aggressively training each morning.

(The first morning, when he had run five miles and practiced with his lightsaber for two hours before any of the rest of them were ready to start the day, Hera had said, “Wow, Ezra, you really got up on the right side of the bed this morning.”

Ezra’s face had turned stony. “It’s just me now,” he had said. “I _have_ to get stronger.”

Hera had turned away, her smile shuttered.)

Sabine watches Ezra as he takes a running start and jumps probably 15 feet into the air, leaping over a few stacked crates and tumbling down to land in a somersault, illuminated only by the glow of his lightsaber in the hazy pre-dawn darkness. Sabine hugs her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around her legs, leans over to rest her chin on her knees.

How is Ezra not tired?

They’d only just returned from the milk run – which, of course, turned into escaping just barely in time from the Empire – about 10 hours ago.

Sabine figures maybe Ezra went to sleep right when they got back. She envies him, his renewed energy, his drive. She watches as he moves his saber in a few defensive horizontal strokes across his body, then performs another running leap, tucking his closely-shaven head into his chest and rolling to the ground, sticking his landing much better this time, practicing breaking his fall while covering his back.

(Three days ago, just after Hera had given them the milk run assignment, Ezra’s first mission out since Malachor, Ezra had followed Sabine back to her room. “I want you to cut my hair,” he had said.

“Uh, okay,” she had said. “What do you want?”

“I just need to get rid of it,” he had said. “All of it.”

So she had. They hadn’t talked the whole time, the only sound in the room the soft buzzing of the electric clippers.

“There,” she had said when she was done, Ezra’s hair in a pile at her feet.

He’d looked suddenly old, and weary. A veteran.

She’d been thinking the whole time about something she’d heard Kanan say once, not quite sure she was remembering it correctly. “So,” she’d asked, “is this, like, how the Jedi used to cut their hair when they were done being someone’s student?”

She had regretted the question the second it’d left her mouth.

Ezra’s expression had twisted into a miserable frown, the look on his face enough to tighten Sabine’s chest, turn her stomach.

“I’m not a little kid anymore,” he had finally said.)

Sabine watches as Ezra practices the sequence again – the run, the leap, the tuck, the roll – and adds the element of having Chopper throw rocks at him the whole time. He yells in exertion into the quiet morning, his blade slicing the rocks in two effortlessly as he executes the moves.

“Come on, Chop, give me a real kriffing challenge next time,” Sabine hears him say as he gets to his feet.

She sighs.

The sun is starting to rise now, to cast eerie shadows over the hard planes and edges of Ezra’s face and body. She’s never really thought of him as hard or sharp, until now.

Something about his hair, maybe.

Muddied grays and brilliant purples wash over Ezra as the sun rises, as he keeps practicing the sequence, pushing himself to jump even higher, farther, each time. He looks like something out of a children’s story, Sabine thinks, like a legend, a ghost. A prince. A villain, maybe, bathed in haunting purple-gray light, his face thrown into relief by the green glow of his saber.

She is struck, for the first time in nearly a month, with the overwhelming urge to draw, to capture the scene – to dig up her pastel chalks and her sketchbook, to mix the purples and grays into something representing Ezra, screaming into the sunrise, lovely and terrifying in the same glance.

Purples and grays, she thinks.

It takes her two days before she gets around to it, because she ends up inconveniently falling asleep for 18 hours when she goes to her room to look for her chalks.

When she finally gets up, she doesn’t feel like drawing anymore. She just feels like shit.

Sabine stares at herself in the mirror, at the black circles under her eyes, the uneven splotches too highly contrasted against the unnatural paleness of her skin and her hair.

She runs her fingers through her hair, teasing a few tangles loose. It’s down almost to her shoulders now, longer than it’s been in a while, and her roots are starting to show. It hangs lank around her face: A blank canvas in an ugly brown frame, a white funeral dress on a too-plain girl.

The temptation creeps over her to buzz it all off, to match Ezra’s new style, to see if maybe that’s the secret to his revival. She takes a hunk of hair in her hand, pulling it away from her face, trying to imagine her own hair as short as Ezra’s, to imagine his newly-found energy flowing through her tired body, her exhausted heart.

But she pauses, recalling Ezra two mornings ago, alight in the sunrise.

Purples and grays, she thinks.

And maybe, she thinks – maybe she’ll shape it a little like Ezra’s, a little shorter in the back than before – but, mostly, purples and grays feel like the thing to do. Maybe she needs to channel the _feeling_ of Ezra’s uncanny strength, more than the look.

(It takes Hera only a few hours to notice, gasping, “Oh, Sabine, I love the new hair, sweetie,” meaning it, her smile nearly touching her eyes.

It will take Kanan almost six more months to gather the courage and the energy to get out of bed, to run his fingers over and through Sabine’s hair as he pulls her into a one-armed hug on his way outside to meditate. To realize that the cut is different, the length. To ask in a small voice if the color’s changed, too. To notice.)

-

No, but it starts before the hair thing, too.

Before the hair, and before the lists, and before the explosion.

It starts with the mask.

It has only been thirty-six hours since Malachor, and Zeb has barely let Sabine out of his sight.

(“I leave you alone for one hour and you go and change your whole look,” he had grumbled, understanding but also hating her bleach-white hair, her own version of a mourning gown.)

They’re sitting nursing lukewarm cups of caf and half-heartedly playing their fifth game of dejarik in a row when Hera calls for him, her steps echoing down the hall from the cockpit.

“Zeb?”

“In here,” Zeb calls back, his head whipping around.

“Can you do something for me?” Hera asks, and Zeb nods.

“Anything,” he says, a little too sincere.

Hera explains, in a tense voice, her hands gripping one another tightly: Explains what the medic thinks about Kanan’s scar tissue, about the fact that he may still have a small bit of light sensitivity, about the fact that he needs to let his eyes heal, to shield them from a natural blinking reflex.

“Do you think you could – I don’t know – weld something? Some armor for his face?” Hera asks quietly.

“Absolutely,” Zeb says. “I’ll have it done by the evening.”

And because Zeb won’t let Sabine leave him alone, she finds herself helping him. Most of the help is design, conceptual, talking through ideas, reluctantly drawing a few sketches. Zeb does the actual welding, the constructing, out of a scavenged piece of used shoulder armor, picked up for a song in a second-hand stall back on Garel and never pressed into service until now. While he welds, she sits to the side on a crate, swinging her legs, staring off into the sunset. Ezra’s conspicuously absent in the moment. Sabine thinks about how much more fun they could pretend to be having if he were out here with them, instead of refusing to leave his bunk.

Zeb holds the finished mask up for her inspection. “Well?” he asks. “What do you think?”

Sabine has barely slept, her mind feels like jelly, and she’s having a hard time thinking about anything.

“It’s okay,” she says with a shrug.

Zeb grumbles, a wordless growl of frustration in the back of his throat. “Just okay? It needs to be _good_ ,” he says. “It’s for _Kanan_.”

“I know,” Sabine says. “It’s functionally great. It just feels like, like it’s missing something.”

“Like what?” Zeb asks.

Sabine thinks, of the paint all over her armor, of ways her people honor valor, of a way to make Kanan still look badass as hell while protecting his ruined eyes.

“I have an idea,” she says slowly, “but I need to ask Rex first.”

“Ask me what?” Rex asks, sauntering up behind them.

“Rex!” Sabine says. She hasn’t seen him since the moment Kanan and Ezra came back, since she ran away and bleached her hair. She can’t ask him if he’s okay, knows he can’t possibly be.

“Okay,” she starts, launching into her idea, talking fast before he can say something about her hair (or anything else), “so Zeb is making this facial plate armor for Kanan and I have an idea…”

She explains: The symbols, the jaig eyes, the smoky white she’s picturing over the green-gray metal of the mask – Kanan’s eyes, but with a warrior’s shield, a protector’s cloak – not injury – obscuring them.

“I love it,” Rex says.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, “I’m sure, and I’m sure Kanan will, too.”

So she goes to her room and digs out her paints and the smallest brush she has, brings them back to Zeb and Rex, gets to work.

Rex sits back and watches her work, tells her the story behind his own jaig markings. Tells, with a sad smile, about how the whole 501st chose their signature blue for their armor based on Ahsoka’s skin, designed their signature jaig markings around her facial markings. “Our fierce little Jetti,” he chuckles, lost in thought. He sighs heavily. “An honor to know her.”

Sabine tries not to listen.

Later, when the paint is dry and the mask is as good as it’s going to get in her eyes (and entirely perfect, according to Zeb and Rex), she shows it to Hera, and Hera smiles, maybe the first time Sabine has seen her smile since before Kanan and Ezra and Ahsoka left Atollon. Maybe the first time she’s smiled since they _got_ to Atollon in the first place. Sabine’s lost track.

“It’s great, sweetie,” Hera says.

“Will he like it?” Sabine asks.

“I’m sure he will,” Hera says. “In fact, he’s awake now – would you and Zeb like to give it to him?”

Zeb is enthused, and he slings an arm around Sabine’s shoulder, trapping her with one hand, holding the mask in the other.

She hasn’t seen Kanan since he stumbled off the _Phantom_ , supported by Ezra, isn’t sure she’s ready, but Zeb’s walking her into the _Ghost_ , into Kanan and Hera’s room, Hera in front of them, and this is happening, right now, whether Sabine wants it to or not.

“Kanan?” Hera calls, startling him out of his meditative pose where he kneels on the floor with his back to the door. “Zeb and Sabine have something for you,” and he gets up, turns around, tries to smile at them, though it looks mostly like a grimace.

Sabine can barely look at him, at the horrible red scars still healing over his eyes, over the bridge of his nose.

Zeb won’t let go of her shoulder, though, and steers her into Kanan’s space, explaining, as though nothing is the matter, as though he’s just dreamed up a cool piece of tech: About the armor, the mask, how Zeb’s custom-welded it for him, how it’s supposed to protect his still-healing scar tissue from the grit of Atollon, and, later, of course, when he’s ready, the heat of battle.

Kanan listens, nods, takes the mask in his hands, turning it over and around. Zeb explains the quick-release, how he’s designed the strap in the back, and Kanan tries to smile again.

“And,” Zeb adds, plowing ahead, sounding far normal about this whole thing, “ _Sabine_ helped too.”

“Yeah?” Kanan asks, his voice raw, low, wobbly from disuse.

“Yeah,” Sabine says reluctantly. “I – Rex and I – we. We decorated it,” she says.

Kanan raises an eyebrow, trying to look her in the face but missing by about 5 inches, his milky gaze trained over her shoulder.

“Come on, give yourself some credit,” Zeb is saying. “She didn’t just decorate it, she gave you _jaig eyes_ ,” he says.

Kanan makes a sound that could be a laugh. “Like the Clone Wars relic I am?” he asks, his mouth drooping into a frown.

That’s not at all what Sabine had intended. “No,” she says, suddenly upset. “No, Kanan, like the _brave hero_ you are. It’s a protector’s pattern.”

“It looks fantastic,” Zeb says proudly, squeezing her shoulder, which he has not let go of this entire time.

Kanan turns the mask over in his hands again. “I’m sure it does,” he says quietly, his voice faraway, wistful.

“Look,” Sabine says before she can think about what she’s saying, sliding out from under Zeb’s arm, “look, Kanan, I’ll show you –“ and she reaches for Kanan’s hand, pulling at his index finger, taking it in a loose grip, helping him trace the fine lines of the painted pattern.

“See?” she asks, and that’s when it happens: The involuntary sob that shudders through her.

Kanan holds Sabine’s hand as they run his finger over the patterns together. “That’s the right side, the warrior’s shield, looking ahead,” Sabine narrates, her whisper somehow making it out around the lump in her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry, a few tears leaking through her eyelashes anyway. “And that’s the left, the protector’s cloak, looking behind,” she whispers. “You see?”

“You made it, sweetheart,” Kanan finally says, turning his hand in her grip so that he’s holding hers. “So I know it’s perfect.”

Sabine sniffs, trying and failing to stop crying. “I’m, I’m glad you like it,” she says, trying and failing to hide her tears in her voice, her breathing reduced to shallow, quiet sobs, and he frowns.

“Sabine, sweetheart,” he starts, quiet, soft, leaning in toward her, but then Hera is there, behind and between them, one hand on Kanan’s shoulder and one on Sabine’s, and Zeb is there, too, at Sabine’s other side, capturing her back under his arm – and, under the weight of Zeb’s and Hera’s touch, Sabine is being pulled away from Kanan, his hand slipping from hers.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Hera says, and Sabine doesn’t know who Hera thinks she’s talking to. Literally none of this is okay.

“It’s great, you guys,” Hera is saying. “Kanan will really appreciate it once he starts training again, right, dear?”

“Right,” Kanan says, defeat in his voice, his shoulders slumping. “Thanks, you two.” He turns away.

“Well then, we’ll let you get your rest,” Zeb says cheerfully, steering Sabine to the door of the room.

They get three steps into the hall, the door to Kanan and Hera’s room swishing closed behind them, before Sabine breaks, simultaneously pressing into Zeb, muffling her sob against his warm, strong shoulder, and whimpering, “Let me go.”

She had thought she had cried all she needed the other day, while she bleached her hair, but now it’s like she’s crying for the first time all over again.

“I don’t think so,” Zeb says, holding her, and it takes her a second to realize that he’s responding to her request to let go. He supports her weight easily when she sways on her feet, one hand dropping to the small of her back, and he walks her backwards down the hall and to her room.

“There,” he says, once the door has closed behind them. “It’s okay, now.”

“Why do you all keep _saying_ that?” Sabine exclaims. “This is so not okay, Zeb!” Her feet give out, her knees buckle, and both of Zeb’s hands flying to her shoulders can’t stop her from crumpling down to the floor, dragging him with her, the soft fur of his arms clutched in her fists.

“It will be,” Zeb says, pulling her in, tucking her head under his chin. “I promise.”

-

No, but it doesn’t start with any of that, either, not exactly.

Months later, after the mask, and after the hair, and after the lists, and maybe 8 or 10 hours after the explosion, it starts with the tea tins.

Sabine is lounging by herself in the dejarik booth, her feet up and her sketchbook open in front of her and her pencil in her hand, but she’s not really drawing, just kind of making lines, thinking. Thinking about the word she learned on the Holonet a couple months ago, _impasto_ , about the only kind of helpful classical art texts that Leia sent to her via Ezra, about the fresh canvas waiting in her room, begging for a masterpiece, about the oil paints next to them, the palette knife, calling out to be used.

About Hera’s childhood home exploding. About what Ezra said that Hera said, that she’d rather destroy her past, her memories of her mom, than let the Empire get them.

Sabine sighs.

It’s quiet, the dead of the night cycle, and it’s been months since Kanan came back to himself, to them, and she’s been sleeping a lot better lately, almost back to a normal pattern, but somehow, tonight, she can’t sleep. When she tried to close her eyes earlier, she saw an explosion on the back of her eyelids.

Sabine tries sketching the scene from earlier today, Hera and Kanan and Cham, squeezed into the dejarik booth, sharing a cup of caf right after the op, but instead she starts drawing an explosion in the background, her own parents’ faces appearing in the upper corner of the page, in the curls of smoke.

She sighs again.

Sabine jumps when she hears the cockpit door swish open, hears Kanan’s voice spilling down the hall, the tail end of their conversation reaching her ears. “Well, love,” he’s saying, gentle, “then you’re lucky that you’re not one of the kids, and that I’m not you.” He pauses, and Sabine knows Hera’s saying something back, but she can’t make out the words, just the lilt of her voice. “Okay, okay,” Kanan says, “back in a flash,” and the sound of his steps grows louder as he moves down the hall into the galley.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, glancing fondly at Sabine. “You’re up late.”

She sighs again. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m having trouble sleeping again.”

Kanan moves around the kitchen, filling the electric kettle with water, setting it on its base, turning it on, rummaging in the cabinet for two mugs. “Want tea?” he asks.

Sabine shakes her head before remembering a second too late to say, “No thanks.”

“Okay,” Kanan says. He’s rummaging in the cabinet still, but for the tea, now. Without looking at her, he says, “You know what Hera would say if she saw your boots on her dejarik booth.”

“Ugh,” Sabine groans, rolling her eyes, but obeying anyway, putting her feet on the floor. “How’d you know?”

“Parental intuition,” Kanan deadpans, swiveling his head to fix her with a warm smile.

“You’re not my dad,” Sabine says, and she shoots for teasing, joking, back to the early years, but it comes out too flat and too quiet and too sad.

“Yeah,” Kanan says.

A silence lingers between them as he fumbles back and forth between the four metal tins of tea in the cabinet, running his fingertips over them. The kettle sings, and he still hasn’t chosen the one he wants. “Karabast,” he mutters, going to shut the kettle off. He sighs. “Sabine,” he says, reluctant, “would you mind—“

Sabine jumps to her feet. Kanan has gotten better at asking for help recently, but everyone else has also gotten better at anticipating it, at offering it before he feels like he has to ask. “Which one do you want?” she asks, walking over to the cabinet.

“The rek,” he answers. She picks the appropriate tin and opens it, grabs two tea bags, puts one in each mug. Kanan has gone to pick up the kettle and appears at her elbow, pouring the boiling water into the mugs. “Thanks,” he says, a bit embarrassed.

Sabine puts the tea tin back in the cabinet. “No problem,” she says.

Kanan looks away, then back at her. “I guess I could’ve just smelled them all,” he says.

Sabine laughs. “Kanan,” she says, “how is it that you can fight as if nothing changed, and you can tell if I’ve got my feet up on the seat, but you can’t tell rek from cassius?”

“Four identical containers of tea don’t have different energies to sense,” he says simply. “It’s hard to tell them apart. It’s not hard to tell _you_ apart from a stormtrooper, sweetie. I know my people. I know my family. It’s just, _things_ are a little harder.”

Sabine leans against the counter next to him and thinks about this, thinks about the word _impasto_ and the palette knife in her room.

“What if I put a marking on each tin?” she asks. “I can make them all different, and I can make them so you can feel the difference.”

He smiles. “That’s my girl, always coming up with a plan,” he says. “I’d love that.”

“Anything for you,” she says. It comes out too heavy, too serious.

Kanan fixes her with a serious look for a long moment. “Get some rest, sweetheart,” he says, picking up the mugs. He leans over and brushes a soft kiss on her forehead before turning to go. “Love you,” he whispers into her forehead.

Sabine is still leaning against the counter, still lost in thought, as the cockpit door swishes open and closed down the hall.

Six hours of Holonet research and three hours of actual working time later, Sabine is finally tired enough to go to bed in the middle of the morning, with raised characters in Aurebesh drying on the lid of each tea tin on the galley counter, with the echo of Kanan’s lips on her forehead, the echo of _that’s my girl_ still ringing through her mind.

-

She had started thinking about this some time ago, about six months after Malachor and the mask and the hair thing, and about three before the explosion on Ryloth, about how to make art that he could see again, art that wouldn’t make her want to run to her room and lock the door and cry herself to sleep for 20 hours.

She had researched on the Holonet, had found references to classical modes, had decided to try. What the hell, she had thought. She just needed…

Thus, the lists, the items grudgingly acquired by Ezra and Zeb.

Thus, the tea tins.

It had been a small start, but Kanan had loved them, had dragged his fingertips over the painted symbols, once they’d dried, and had shot a crooked, genuine grin at her, a grin Sabine hadn’t seen on his face in, maybe, months.

“This is absolutely perfect, Sabine,” he had said. She had flushed with pride. “What are you going to think of next?”

Sabine had shrugged. “What do you need next?” she had said.

Kanan had folded his arms thoughtfully. “I think you’ll know it when you see it,” he had said.

He had slung one arm over her shoulders, in leaving and in thanks, pulling her into a half-hug, and had rested one broad palm on the back of her head, her ear close to his shoulder. “Did you change your hair _again_?” he had asked, smiling, running his fingers through it, tugging at the ends, making her laugh.

“I just trimmed it this afternoon when I got up,” she had said. “Nothing else changed this time.”

“How am I supposed to keep up with you,” he had said, fond, pulling her in, pressing a kiss to the side of her head before letting her go. “Damn, girl, stop growing.”

“Okay, _dad_ ,” Sabine had joked, rolling her eyes, and Kanan’s grin had grown that much wider.

-

It is now three days after the explosion on Ryloth, and Sabine still can’t stop seeing it, fire blooming on the back of her eyelids when she closes them. Her sleep pattern, which she had painstakingly wrestled under control in the months after Malachor, is disrupted again now, leaving her struggling to sleep at night and exhausted during the day.

But when Wedge had sent her a note saying that it was Hobbie’s birthday and the pilots were all getting together and did she want to come, Sabine had accepted.

Of course, Ezra had been invited, too, and that had, at first, delighted Sabine all the more.

But what she had forgotten, especially when she got wrapped up in kicking the pilots’ asses in sabacc, was the fact that Ezra _was_ four years younger than her, and that he _was_ small for his age. Even now that he’d gotten taller, he was still skinny as hell. And Sullustan gin was not for the weak-hearted.

Which is why it is technically four days after the explosion, now, in the early hours of the morning past midnight, and Ezra is _clinging_ to Sabine as they walk back to the _Ghost._

In another circumstance, the way Ezra is holding her hand – her right hand tight in the crook of his left elbow with his right hand covering it across his body, his fingers curled protectively over hers – would have been either extraordinarily chivalrous and cute, or extraordinarily unwelcome. In this particular moment, she just sighs and squeezes his arm, trying to make sure he doesn’t trip.

“Ugh, you’re such a lightweight, Ez,” Sabine grumbles, rolling her eyes.

“Am not,” he says. “I just drank, like, three times as much as you did!”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Sabine retorts. “You need to go to bed.”

Ezra stumbles a little as he walks, leaning his body in toward Sabine’s. “I don’t wanna,” he slurs. “The Force feels _amazing_ right now. I wanna stay up and meditate.”

“Sure you do,” she says. She has no idea what Ezra’s talking about. Being drunk has never, ever, felt anything close to _amazing_ for her. Usually it’s just a distraction, a floaty feeling, until she finds herself suddenly sad, acutely lonely, the tip of her nose numb.

They’re almost back at the _Ghost_ now, the light streaming in from around the lowered ramp a beacon in the darkness ahead of them. Sabine, who is certainly not what she’d call sober herself, takes a deep, centering breath, clenching her teeth tightly together, trying to shove her melancholy aside. “Okay,” she says, “okay, Ezra, we can do this. Just stop talking so loud, and go straight to my room.”

“I’m _not_ being loud,” Ezra counters, loudly, and Sabine huffs.

“Just do what I say,” she hisses, anxiety at the thought of Hera finding them out creeping up into her throat. “Think sober thoughts.”

Ezra squeezes her hand. “I can _feel_ you, you know,” he tells her. “I _know_ you’re annoyed with me.” He turns his head to look at her, slows down his walk. “And – you’re getting sad,” he says, fixing her with wide, serious eyes. “Please don’t be.” He has stopped nearly completely in his tracks. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice soft, tender.

“It’s just what happens when I drink, okay,” she snaps.

“Sabine,” he starts, reverent, but she cuts him off.

“Come on, Ezra,” Sabine starts, tugging on his arm, turning back toward the _Ghost_. “Come on, we can talk about it later if we _really_ have to. For now, let’s just focus on getting inside, and getting to bed.”

“Woah, uh,” Ezra stutters, “you – you want to – “

“I was _going_ to be generous and let you sleep in my room so I can _make sure you don’t get sick_ ,” Sabine says, her annoyance ratcheting up the volume of her voice, “but I’d be perfectly happy to be left alone, too!”

“You know, guys,” Kanan’s voice carries through the night, from the ramp of the _Ghost_ , “yelling like that is not the best way to get people to leave you alone.” He’s coming toward them, now, and Sabine can almost _hear_ him rolling his eyes.

“Karabast,” Ezra mutters.

“We’re fine!” Sabine calls out. Ezra springs away from her, jerks his arm from her hand.

“Oh, hey, Kanan!” Ezra yells, trying and failing, _spectacularly_ , to play it cool. “Uh, great night for a walk, right?”

Sabine covers her face with her hand, shaking her head.

“Uh huh,” Kanan says, standing in front of them now, one hand on his hip, a small rucksack over his shoulder, not wearing his mask. “Great night for you two to walk away from Hera’s ship if you don’t want to hear about it for the next six weeks.”

“Wha – what do you mean?” Ezra asks, swaying a little on his feet.

“Please,” Kanan says. “You know Hera’s rules about alcohol on the ship.”

Ezra splutters, trying to find an excuse, but Kanan just smiles, shaking his head. He throws an arm around Ezra’s shoulders, pulling him in, away from Sabine. “Come on, kiddo,” Kanan says. “You wanna take a walk, let’s take a walk.”

They take three steps away from her before Ezra turns back.

“Hey, aren’t you coming?” Ezra asks.

She hesitates. Ezra and Kanan’s relationship – it’s special, it’s close, and it was so damaged for so long, and they’ve only just started repairing it, and – “I’m good,” she says, though she looks a little ruefully at the way Kanan’s hand spans Ezra’s shoulder blade.

“Sabine, I can _hear you thinking,_ ” Ezra says, earnest. “Come with us. I want you to.”

Kanan turns, too. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says, reaching out with his other arm. She takes the few steps to catch up with them, and he slings his free arm over her shoulders. “We can all be lonely and miserable together,” he says, quietly, knowingly, into her ear.

“Fine,” Sabine says, but her chest fills with warmth under the weight of Kanan’s arm around her shoulders.

They walk for a leisurely 20 minutes, a slow pace, the rucksack over Kanan’s shoulder bouncing against her own arm every so often. Ezra keeps up a steady stream of conversation, mostly questioning Kanan about the effects of mixing alcohol and the Force, trying to figure out why he feels so _good_ , Kanan patiently explaining about brains and chemistry and openness to the Force and alcohol tolerance. Sabine listens only half-interestedly, leaning into Kanan’s hold on her, gazing up at the night sky as they walk, clear and bright with stars.

“Listen,” Kanan says at one point, his tone serious, and she tunes back in. “To me, it’s okay to have a drink every so often for fun, okay? The problem with drinking is when you aren’t doing it for fun anymore. For me, and for Zeb, it was never fun in the first place. That’s why we have a zero-tolerance rule for our home, because –“ he sighs. “Bad memories.”

“Kanan,” Ezra says. “You’re making me sad.”

“I get it,” Sabine says softly. She never had the deep, intimate problems Kanan and Zeb did with alcohol, but she – there was a time in her life when she tried a few too many things, took a few too many risks, trying to take the edge off of her existence.

“I know,” Kanan says, warm and easy, accepting.

“I don’t,” Ezra says. “I feel – so – good? But I also can’t feel my face?”

Kanan laughs. “Here’s hoping you never get what it feels like to feel bad, kiddo. And, listen, if you ever find yourself in the middle of a situation you don’t want to be in –“

“I know, I know,” Ezra says. “We should call you.”

“That’s right,” Kanan says, “you should call for me,” and the three of them lapse into silence for the rest of the walk.

Eventually they come to one of Kanan’s favorite spots for meditation, Sabine knows, a wide, flat rock that juts out to the edge of a cliff, a fantastic view of the valley below them. The moons hang wide and orange on the horizon. Sabine wonders distantly why Kanan still favors this spot, when he can’t see it anymore.

Some Jedi thing.

She slides out from under Kanan’s arm, perches on the edge of the rock, her feet dangling over the cliff, gazing out at the landscape before her.

“Can we meditate for a little bit?” she hears Ezra ask Kanan, behind her. “Like, together?”

“You sure?” Kanan asks. “You’re awfully open in the Force right now, Ezra. I don’t know if you can control –“

“I want to,” Ezra says, an earnest certainty, the same way he’d said it to Sabine twenty minutes ago. “Please, Kanan. I just – I wanna be – “

“I know,” Kanan says, so soft, Sabine almost can’t hear him. “I know. Okay.”

He drops the rucksack on the ground with a thud. A moment later, Kanan is at Sabine’s side, having produced from the bag the oversized quilt that normally stays folded at the foot of his bed. He tucks it around her shoulders. The desert can get cool at night, and she appreciates the gesture, pulls the edges of the quilt a little tighter.

“Don’t get too lost in there, girl,” he murmurs, tapping the side of her head with a gentle index finger.

“Okay,” she says, leaning into his touch. He smooths his whole hand over her head before rising, turning to go to Ezra.

“Okay, kiddo,” she hears him say to Ezra, and she closes her eyes, losing herself in the sounds of the insects singing, in the soft sounds of Ezra and Kanan settling in behind her, then falling silent.

Long moments pass – how long, Sabine has no idea. She is relaxed, enjoying the way the night feels like it was put together just for them.

But the peace and stillness of the night is suddenly broken by a jumble of out of place noise:

First, Ezra’s quick, abrupt gasp that gives way to short, panicky breaths, and then Kanan, concern sharp in his voice, saying, “woah, hey – Ezra! Ezra, find my breath, breathe with me, slow it down – “

Sabine startles at all of this, turns to find Ezra and Kanan on their knees, facing one another in a familiar meditation post, but Ezra’s leaning in toward Kanan, both hands flat over Kanan’s chest, both of Kanan’s hands around Ezra’s wrists.

“Ezra?” she asks, getting up, walking over, cautiously kneeling at his side.

Ezra is gasping as though he’s just run five miles, and he leans in closer to Kanan as he struggles to get his breath under control. “Too much,” he gasps out. “It’s too much, it’s so –“

“I know,” Kanan says. “I’m sorry.” He runs one hand up Ezra’s arm, up to his shoulder, to the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb over a knob of vertebrae there. “What did I tell you about pushing too hard?”

“I feel really drunk,” Ezra manages between uneven breaths.

Kanan chuckles, still rubbing slow circles at the back of Ezra’s neck. “Slow it down, kiddo,” he murmurs.

Sabine feels, again, like she’s intruding, almost pulls away, but Kanan looks straight at her, one of those preternatural glances he can throw sometimes where she _swears_ he can still see. “It’s okay,” he tells her.

Sabine lays her hand gingerly on Ezra’s other shoulder, and Ezra leans back into the double touch, melting down to a seated position on the ground, squeezed in between Kanan on his right and Sabine on his left. Ezra, snuggly and shaking, wraps his left arm around Sabine’s waist, pulling her in, and Kanan lays his left arm over Ezra’s shoulders, and Ezra tucks into Kanan, Kanan’s left hand landing on Sabine’s back, just below her right shoulder blade. Sabine pushes the quilt from off of her shoulders toward Kanan, and he grabs the corner, stretches it out around all three of them, Ezra securely in the middle. Ezra lays his head on Kanan’s shoulder, his knees pulled up to his chest.

Five long, silent minutes pass like this, Ezra’s breathing slowing down, and Sabine thinks she may never find out what that was all about.

Some Jedi thing.

Ezra collects his breath, and Sabine thinks maybe he’s going to explain, but instead he sighs, a sound that turns into a whine in the back of his throat. “Ugh, I’m hungry,” he says, slurring the syllables.

“Hi hungry, I’m dad,” Kanan deadpans, and Ezra laughs, sitting up straighter, leaning back from Kanan.

“Kanan,” he groans, shoving at Kanan’s arm.

Sabine rolls her eyes, but she smiles.

“What?” Kanan’s asking, grinning, reaching for the rucksack, pulling it over. He reaches in and produces three containers of water and three sandwiches, wrapped up in reusable wax wraps from the galley: Zeb’s homemade flat bread, slathered with thick layers of peanut butter, rolled up into rolls. “Ask and ye shall receive, kid,” Kanan says, handing one sandwich over to Sabine and another to Ezra.

“Mm, thanks,” Sabine says, digging in.

“Ugh, Kanan,” Ezra says, around an enthusiastic bite of sandwich. “You’re such a –“

“Careful, kiddo,” Kanan interrupts, pointing his sandwich at Ezra. “Are you really about to insult the guy who made a sandwich for your drunk ass?”

“No,” Ezra answers, petulant, taking another bite, following it with a huge sip of water.

Sabine snickers.

“It’s not funny,” Ezra whines, turning on her. “Everything I’m feeling right now – it’s – there’s a lot, Sabine."

“Are you sure you _only_ drank the Sullustan gin?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Ezra says. “It’s just –“

“Ezra’s connection with the Force is unusually open and loose right now,” Kanan says, patient, calm. “It happens when you get the right combination of under the influence, strong in the Force, and low discipline.” He pokes at Ezra, takes another bite of his sandwich. “Discipline, Ezra.”

“I know, _dad_ ,” Ezra says, rolling his eyes.

The sandwiches are finished, the wax wraps neatly folded and replaced in the rucksack along with the water containers, and Kanan closes the top of the rucksack and stretches his legs out in front of him, settling back, pressing his palms into the rock behind him, leaning his weight back on his hands. Ezra lays his head on Kanan’s left shoulder again, mirroring Kanan’s pose, his legs stretched long and gangly in front of him, too, crossed at the ankles, one foot touching one of Kanan’s, his arms out wide behind him, his right wrist crossed under Kanan’s left.

Sabine crosses her legs, leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, feeling left out again, feeling lost in her thoughts, but remembering the remark Kanan had made about at least being lonely and miserable together. She feels drunk, and floaty, and sad, but she’s still close enough that the quilt just stretches over all three of them, that she can feel their body heat next to hers under it, that she can share in a modicum of their intimacy, despite the distance.

“Kanan,” Ezra says, breaking the comfortable silence between the three of them, his tone measured now, thoughtful. “Why _are_ you so sad? I haven’t felt anything like that from you since...” He trails off, swallows audibly.

“Ah, it’s not – it’s okay,” Kanan says, though he doesn’t sound especially convinced. “I’m sorry you got so deep into it. I didn’t mean to – “

“It’s okay,” Ezra says. “It – it makes me feel better about being really sad sometimes, or being scared. Knowing that sometimes you are, too.”

“Mm,” Kanan hums. “I guess that’s true.”

A moment passes, and Sabine thinks maybe Ezra’s going to drop it, but she ought to know better. She supposes she _is_ only getting half the conversation, after all, the rest probably happening in their minds, in their Jedi bond.

“Come on, what’s _wrong_?” Ezra insists, knocking his foot against Kanan’s.

Kanan sighs. “Do _not_ repeat this,” he says. “Either of you.”

“My lips are sealed,” Sabine says.

“Me too,” Ezra says.

Kanan sighs again, tilting his head up to the night sky, his throat a straight line back. “I’m really – I’m worried about Hera,” he admits.

“Why?” Ezra asks.

Sabine thinks about the other night, the snippet of conversation she probably wasn’t supposed to overhear; about how withdrawn Hera’s been at mealtimes, these past few days.

“She’s really upset about what happened, back on Ryloth,” Kanan’s saying, his words coming out slow and low. “And she’s being hard on herself about it, doesn’t think she should be allowed to be upset.” He sighs again. “Before you guys came home, we were having… a disagreement.”

“A disagreement,” Ezra repeats, totally unconvinced. “You guys never fight.”

“It’s – it’s complicated,” Kanan says. “We’re still – I’m still – trying to get back to – before.” He sits up straighter, scrubbing his right hand over his beard and face. “Before I was – before I left you guys, before I got hurt.”

Ezra visibly winces, and Kanan frowns, leans forward, puts his left arm around Ezra again, cups the side of Ezra’s head protectively in his left hand, tugging Ezra close. “Not your fault, kiddo,” he murmurs into Ezra’s hairline, pressing his lips to Ezra’s temple, scratching his fingers through Ezra’s hair.

Ezra turns his face into Kanan’s neck, and Kanan leans his chin on the top of Ezra’s head, still petting his short hair. He turns his face to Sabine, keeps talking. “She wants – she wants somebody to tell her she’s being ridiculous, that she needs to let go, that it’s just _stuff_ , that her childhood home, her memories of her mom, her family artifacts – that that stuff doesn’t matter.”

“Family artifacts?” Sabine asks.

“The kali—thingy?” Ezra offers, his voice muffled against Kanan’s body.

“Yeah,” Kanan says, “the kalikori, the family genealogy totem – that’s really –“

“She was trying to sneak it out,” Ezra says. “Like it was the one thing that mattered most.”

“Generations of women in her mother’s clan worked on it,” Kanan says. “It did matter, a lot. It was a priceless piece of art and family history, and Thrawn stole it from her. You see why I couldn’t just tell her to get over it.”

“So… that’s what you were fighting over?” Sabine asks, a bit incredulous. “Hera… trying to get you to invalidate her feelings?”

Kanan closes his eyes, silent and still for a long moment but for the fingers of his left hand running through Ezra’s hair. “I don’t lie to Hera,” he finally says. “Never have, never will. I love her too much, respect her too much, to lie to her. So.” He sighs again, shaking his head, his beard rasping against Ezra’s head. “I couldn’t tell her what she thought she wanted to hear.”

“I’m sorry,” Sabine says, soft and quiet, not sure what else to offer.

“It’ll be okay,” Kanan says. “She just needs some time. But, it’ll be okay.”

Sabine is thinking about Kanan, the other day, saying _you’ll know it when you see it_. She is thinking about the canvas in her room, the oil paints, the palette knife, the word _impasto_ , the kalikori. She feels a smile slowly spreading over her face as a plan forms in her mind.

“Kanan?” Ezra asks.

Kanan hums a questioning note in the back of his throat, still petting Ezra’s hair.

“Why are you so good at – at loving people?” Ezra asks.

Sabine’s heart contracts at that, at Ezra’s open, innocent tone, at the image of him snuggled up to Kanan beside her. She wishes she had her sketchbook with her.

Kanan is laughing, the softest and fondest sound Sabine’s probably ever heard in her entire life.

“I practice a lot, kiddo,” Kanan says. “And I definitely don’t always get it right.”

“You get it right enough,” Ezra says. “I love you, Kanan.”

Kanan smiles. “I love you too,” he says. “I love you both, so much. Never doubt it.”

Sabine feels her throat go tight.

Ezra’s left hand fumbles blindly behind him, grazing Sabine’s thigh. Sabine takes Ezra’s hand. “Love you too, ‘Bine,” Ezra says. “Even when I can hear you think.”

“Ezra, I somehow love you even though you’re being a ridiculously snuggly and affectionate lightweight,” Sabine says, teasing in her voice, but running her thumb over Ezra’s knuckles. She glances up at Kanan. “Love you both.”

Sabine has to look away, then, the sincerity in Kanan’s face too much to bear.

“Relax, kiddo,” Kanan’s saying into the top of Ezra’s head when Sabine finally comes back to herself, to the moment. “If you need to rest, rest. I’ll keep the watch.”

“You sure?” Ezra asks, yawning into Kanan’s chest.

“Absolutely,” Kanan says. “Here,” and he pushes gently on the back of Ezra’s neck. Ezra goes willingly, curling up a little, his torso on the ground, his head cradled on Kanan’s left thigh, Kanan’s left hand back in his hair. “Rest a little,” Kanan says, running his thumb over the shell of Ezra’s ear.

“Thanks,” Ezra whispers, drifting off.

Sabine draws her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around her shins, lays her chin on her knees, watches Ezra sleep.

“Sabine?” Kanan asks a few minutes later, after Ezra has settled. He opens his right arm wide, an invitation. “You cold?” Ezra had shifted the quilt off of Sabine’s shoulders when he laid down, and Sabine has been shivering.

“A little,” she says, and she takes Kanan’s invitation, gets up, goes to his right side, tucks under his right arm, lays her head on his right shoulder.

Kanan adjusts the quilt so that all three of them are securely under it again, his left hand in Ezra’s hair and his right on Sabine’s right shoulder. “There,” he says.

Stillness falls over them again, and Sabine’s melancholy, her yearning for her family, is somewhat soothed by Kanan’s warmth, but courses through her nonetheless.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, squeezing her shoulder.

She could lie, could say she’s fine, but she thinks about the way Kanan said _I don’t lie to Hera_ , and she shakes her head against his shoulder _._

“I miss my dad, and my brother, and my mom,” she whispers. “And – Kanan, I missed _you_.” She closes her eyes. She’s still feeling a little bit drunk, and emotional, and sad, and she says, “I missed you, so much, those months that you were – gone.”

“I know,” Kanan says. “I’m so sorry. I had so much I had to figure out, but.” He sighs. “I didn’t do it very well, huh? I missed you guys, too. So much.”

“But you came back,” Sabine says, her voice cracking, a couple tears rolling down her cheeks before it even fully registers that she needs to cry. “And that – that’s what matters.”

“Yeah,” Kanan says, turning his head to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll always come back,” he says, his lips moving on her forehead. He reaches up with his right hand, cups her cheek, wipes a tear from her face with his thumb. “Love you,” he murmurs.

“Love you, too,” Sabine barely gets out around her tears, turning into him, finally leaning her forehead on his collarbone, finally – finally giving herself permission to cry, quiet and breathy, the way she wanted to months ago.

“Kanan,” she whispers, overwhelmed, thinking, unbidden, of that terrible memory, of that day she made the mask and the jaig eyes, of how much it had hurt, seeing him in pain and in that strange form of mental retreat, absence.

Kanan holds her, rubs her back with his right hand, rocking her a little, though his left hand never leaves Ezra’s hair. She holds the front of his shirt in desperate fists, presses into his body, lost in her delayed release of grief.

“I know,” he says, “I know,” his voice reverberating through her, under her, low and deep and calm and easy, almost as though he knows exactly what she’s thinking about, what she’s feeling, what she’s remembering. Maybe he does. Jedi stuff.

When Sabine runs out of tears, she pulls back, wiping at her eyes, gazing up at the sky, taking shaky breaths, trying to collect herself.

Kanan smiles. “There’s my girl,” he says, and Sabine’s heart seizes up in her chest.

She falls asleep on his shoulder, comforted by the steady measure of his breath, and by the plan that’s forming in her mind, the plan revolving around the canvas in her room, the love in her heart.

-

And, so. Here she is.

After the mask, and after the hair, and after the lists, and after the explosion, and after the tea tins, and after her hangover, and after taking two days to make twelve different sketches of the thing, using images from Chopper’s memory banks:

Here she is, her paintbrush in one hand and her palette knife in the other, her sketches spread out on the table in front of her, the canvas on the easel a fertile space, yearning to be filled with Hera’s ancestors.

She hadn’t been able to wait to spill her plan to Ezra, catching his arm as they’d walked back to the _Ghost_ behind Kanan in the purple-gray pre-dawn light two days ago, her head throbbing and her neck sore from sleeping all night pressed into Kanan’s shoulder, telling Ezra about her idea in an excited whisper.

“Yeah, sure, sounds awesome, but can you please just _be quiet_ right now?” Ezra had whined, and Sabine had laughed and teased him about not being able to hold his alcohol, and they had both gone back to bed, Ezra curled in exhaustion around Sabine in her bunk, his arm looped lazily over her waist, and she had woken him up six hours later to tell him the plan again.

“Ugh,” Ezra had groaned, his voice thick with sleep, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. “I heard you the first time.”

“And how was I supposed to know that?” Sabine had asked, turning over in his grasp, suddenly way too close to him, nose to nose. “You weren’t exactly being a good listener the first time I tried talking to you about this.”

“Ugh,” Ezra had said again, holding her gaze for a quiet moment before sitting up, stretching, yawning, getting out of bed. “I’m always a good listener,” he had said over his shoulder in parting.

But he had helped her, like she knew he would, dragging Chopper into Sabine’s room later that afternoon and swearing him to secrecy before explaining the plan and asking for the memory files, the images.

Luckily for Sabine, Chopper had several images from several different vantage points. Sabine has never seen Chopper be more cooperative with something in her life, possibly because Ezra framed the entire thing up as a way to cheer Hera up.

It was, Ezra wasn’t lying to Chopper, but it was more than that, too, something Sabine wasn’t sure if Ezra was grasping, given the way his eyes had glazed over when she had tried to explain the word _impasto_.

If Sabine could do this right, it wouldn’t just cheer Hera, but Kanan, too.

Sabine had spent the past two days studying Chopper’s images, sketching them, until she had finally felt ready to start with the paint and the brush and the knife earlier this morning.

She wants to get every detail right, is ready to take the time she needs until she feels like it’s done.

It takes the better part of a week before she feels satisfied with it, letting layers of paint dry before adding on to them. Ezra and Zeb and Chopper all cycle in and out of her room, watching her work, fascinated, and she only allows them to do so after swearing them to secrecy on pain of death, wanting, for some childish reason, for this to be a complete surprise.

After a week it feels done, every detail of the kalikori represented in near 3D on the canvas, but somehow she’s not ready to let it go, keeps it in her room, waiting for the right time to unveil it.

 _I think you’ll know it when you see it,_ Kanan had said, and she trusts, waits, watches.

-

Weeks and weeks later, after the mask, and after the hair, and after the lists, and after the explosion, and after the tea tins, and after her hangover, and after the week spent painting, the sun is setting on Atollon.

The lines on Commander Sato’s face are softer, kinder, than she’s ever seen them be, and he hugs Mart tight and tells the generals to take an extra day of rest tomorrow, to give their troops a holiday, to only run the most essential operations.

To spend time with family. To celebrate.

The six of them cram into the galley of the _Ghost_ for a family dinner, and tonight is Zeb and Kanan’s night to cook, which is always Sabine’s favorite night, because somehow they always manage to make feasts out of nothing. Zeb has been experimenting with what will grow best in his homemade hydroponics system he’s rigged up on the south end of the base, and tonight he serves them all bowls of Kanan’s signature sticky rice, adorned with slices of fried, canned meat and a mound of stir-fried vegetables, the fresh carrots and zucchini and onions in their spicy, thick sauce like candy in her mouth.

They linger at the table after they finish eating, no one wanting to break the spell.

“Mm,” Hera hums contentedly, leaning back in the booth with a pleased, relaxed expression. “Fresh vegetables _and_ an extra rest day tomorrow? Could this evening get any better?”

Kanan smiles at this, reaching for her, and Sabine watches as Hera takes Kanan’s hand under the table, squeezing it. Hera darts a glance at Kanan, the smallest smirk quirking one side of her mouth up, and Sabine wants to roll her eyes, but she doesn’t, doesn’t want to give away that she knows they made up weeks ago, knows they’ve finally, mostly, reconnected again, finally started figuring everything out.

Doesn’t want to give away how happy this makes her, how relieved. Kanan and Ezra coming back the way they did from Malachor, almost a year ago now, somehow changed everything about all six of them, but, somehow, finally, everyone’s made up, started to move through the changes together.

Sabine watches Hera run her thumb over Kanan’s knuckles, and she closes her eyes, and she soaks in the nearly palpable love everyone at the table is radiating at everyone else, the way the bugs are singing outside, the way the night has fallen, still and cool outside the ship, and something comes over Sabine: It is the right time, right now.

“I know how to make it better,” Sabine says, opening her eyes, leaning forward, getting up from the table.

Ezra looks up at her, his eyes wide, a smile breaking over his face. “Are you –“

Sabine smiles. “Yeah,” she says. “Don’t you think so?”

Zeb cracks a huge grin. “Perfect,” he exclaims, jumping up from the table. “Do you need any help?”

Hera is looking suspicious, now, raising an eyebrow, glancing between the three of them. “What are you up to?” she asks.

“Um,” Sabine says, not knowing how to say it, but Kanan stops her.

“Just give them a minute,” he tells Hera. “You’ll find out.” He turns his face toward Sabine, giving her one of those eerie, knowing, piercing looks with his milky eyes, the softest smile on his face, like he knows exactly what she’s been up to, and Sabine feels herself smile in return, more widely than she has in a long time.

“I got the table,” Ezra is saying, already picking up the dishes, putting them in the sink, running water over them.

“Here, Sabine,” Zeb’s saying, “let me help you,” and he takes her by the shoulder, steers her down the hall and to her room.

She takes the drop cloth off of the canvas one last time, admiring her creation, silent for a long moment.

“It’s beautiful,” Zeb says gently. “You ready?”

“Sabine!” Ezra is calling down the hall, and she hears his footsteps closing in, followed by Chopper’s excited twittering.

Ezra puts his head in her room. “Come on,” he says, breathless, smiling, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come on, let’s do it.”

She puts the drop cloth back over the canvas, and the three of them follow Chopper back into the galley.

Sabine sets the covered canvas down on the dejarik table. Kanan and Hera have squeezed into the middle seat, both of Kanan’s arms across the back of the booth, his right hand just brushing the top of Hera’s right lek.

“Okay,” Sabine says. Zeb stands on her left, and Ezra on her right, practically vibrating with the thrill of giving Kanan and Hera this unexpected gift, and Sabine wishes she could stop time long enough to make a quick sketch, to remember forever the way Hera is leaning forward interestedly, watching the three of them with an expectant smile, loose and relaxed and open; the way Kanan is leaning back into the booth, trusting his kids to know what they’re doing.

“Hera,” Sabine starts. “Kanan.” Kanan tilts his head at her in questioning, like he didn’t think he was part of this whole thing, and Sabine smiles.

“Hera, we all felt really sad for you after what happened on Ryloth, to your house, and we wanted to do something to help you recover the things you lost,” Sabine says. “And – Kanan – I.” Her voice catches in her throat. She swallows, and she says, “You told me a few months ago that I would know what you needed my help with next when I saw it, and, well, I saw it. So, this is for both of you.”

“Okay,” Sabine says, “okay, just open it before Ezra explodes over here.”

Everyone laughs, and Hera reaches for the drop cloth, carefully lifting it from the canvas, and she gasps, dropping the cloth on the table next to the canvas, both her hands flying to cover her mouth.

“Oh,” Hera says, pain and surprise and longing and happiness all mixing in her tone. “Oh, Sabine. The ancestors.”

“Do you like it?” Sabine asks, suddenly nervous. “Ezra and Zeb and Chopper helped, they helped me get the art supplies and the reference pictures and –“

“I love it,” Hera says, and there are tears in her eyes, and Sabine isn’t sure if she’s ever actually seen Hera cry before. “Oh, I love it, sweetheart,” she says, taking a sobbing breath in, and she pulls away from Kanan, slides out of the booth, folds Sabine into a crushing hug.

Sabine holds her in return, distantly hears Ezra explaining to Kanan what’s on the canvas, what Sabine has painted, but Sabine still isn’t sure that Ezra gets the _impasto_ thing, isn’t sure that he’ll be able to explain it.

Hera pulls back from Sabine, sniffing and wiping her eyes. “This artifact is passed from mother to daughter,” Hera says, “and it’s a daughter’s duty to add to it, to honor her mother and the mothers before her. I wouldn’t have had anyone, _anyone_ else in the galaxy, reproduce this, but you.”

Sabine feels tears gathering in her own eyes, threatening to spill, as Hera reaches forward and cups Sabine’s face in both her slim hands. “You aren’t my daughter in blood, but you’re my daughter in my heart,” Hera tells her, sincere, smiling, and she pulls Sabine back in to kiss her on the forehead. “I love you,” Hera whispers.

“I love you, too,” Sabine says, leaning into Hera’s embrace for a long moment.

“But part of it is for Kanan, too,” Sabine says, and Hera turns her head. Ezra has settled into the booth on Kanan’s left, and Zeb is perched on the other end, and he gets up, holds his hand out, gestures for Hera and Sabine to sit. Hera slides in, tucks herself back under Kanan’s right arm, leaning her head against him, and Sabine slides in after her, and Zeb sits back on the end of the booth, laying his left arm across the back of it, mirroring Kanan.

“Well, it sounds like you guys are all set to perform a medical miracle,” Kanan deadpans.

“What?” Ezra asks, raising a confused eyebrow at him.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” Kanan says, and he cracks a dumb grin. “Me! The guy without functioning tear ducts! Total medical miracle.”

Ezra rolls his eyes, smacks Kanan’s upper arm. “Kanan,” he groans.

“Ugh,” Sabine says, though she and Hera are both laughing through their tears. “Kanan, listen, seriously. Part of this is actually for you.”

Kanan drops his teasing air, and he turns his face toward her. “Okay, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m all ears.”

“Yeah,” Zeb interjects, “you pretty much have to be, don’t you, to make up for your lack of eyes, there,” and Ezra groans again.

“Zeb!” Ezra says, and Kanan is laughing. Sabine is the one rolling her eyes, now.

“Come on, seriously,” Sabine says. She reaches up above her head with her right hand, searching for Kanan’s right hand where it rests on the back of the booth, just above Hera’s head. He winds his fingers in hers, across Hera’s torso, and he leans forward, and Sabine leans forward, and Hera leans back.

Ezra and Zeb are leaning forward, too, waiting to hear the secret. She had explained to them that Kanan would be able to see the painting, but she hadn’t quite explained how.

“Okay, so there’s this classical painting technique where you use really thick layers of paint and it creates this – this really rich depth, like a 3D effect, and – and a lot of the old artists just used it to play with expressionism in a new way, but there was a new generation who started using it to.” Sabine squeezes his hand, takes a breath. “To make paintings that blind people can still see.”

Kanan tilts his head at her curiously, and Sabine recalls, almost viscerally, the day she gave him his jaig eyes, the way she helped him find the patterns.

“So, you know it’s Hera’s kalikori, right?” she asks, her throat tight again. “But, Kanan, _look_ ,” she says, and she takes his hand and guides it to the lines on the canvas, gently showing him the contours, the ridges and edges, the delicate details of the different blocks of the totem.

“Oh,” Kanan says, a soft, surprised sound.

“See?” Sabine asks, waiting with baited breath, and Kanan turns to her, reaching with his left hand across Hera’s body.

“Come here,” he says, and he catches Sabine by the back of her neck, and he kisses her forehead, lays his palm on her right cheek.

“It’s perfect, sweetheart,” he says, sincere, loving, his right hand still joined with Sabine’s, carefully touching a ridge of paint. “I can – I can see it.” He smiles, and lets go, and Hera is there, between them, one hand on Sabine’s back and one hand on Kanan’s, so much like the day Sabine made the jaig eyes, but at the same time, so different. “You did such a good job,” Kanan says.

Hera’s crying again, and she lays her head on Kanan’s shoulder. Kanan is still running his fingertips reverently over the painting, and for a long, still moment, no one says anything.

“Hera?” Sabine finally asks.

Hera hums a questioning note in the back of her throat in response.

“Can you – can you tell us the stories?” Sabine asks. “I know it holds them, but I couldn’t figure out how to read them.”

Hera smiles. She puts her right arm around Sabine, lays her left hand over Kanan’s right, guides it to the top of the totem, and she says, “Well, the first block starts with my grandmother of eight generations ago,” launching into the story.

As Hera speaks, everyone relaxes, Ezra leaning into Kanan’s left side, Kanan and Hera’s hands joined on top of the painting, Sabine snuggled into Hera’s right side, the warmth of Zeb’s arm over her head, Chopper sitting at Ezra’s feet. Sabine closes her eyes, lets Hera’s voice roll over her, through her, and tries to commit the moment to her permanent memory, perfect, crystalline.

-

Later, Kanan will be climbing the side of the building, following Hera’s Force signature like a dog on a scent, and he will stop.

Something else will be calling to him in the Force, something both like and unlike Hera.

He will stop, and he will follow the call, and he will reach out in front of him, wondering how an object, not a person, can be calling him.

He’s always suspected that, somewhere in Hera’s lineage, there’s Jedi blood, or, at the very least, extreme Force sensitivity. He tried to help her connect before, years ago, tried to walk her through a meditation, but her sensitivity wasn’t high enough to do anything. But – the way she flies? The way her Force signature immediately called him, the first time he met her?

Something in the Force within him has always known something in the Force within her, and maybe that’s enough.

That’s the song this – object? – will be singing to him, the song of a Force-sensitive matriarch from generations ago, and he will reach out in front of him, and he will close his hand around it, and he will _smile._

That’s my girl, he will think, and he will be so proud of Sabine in that moment, because he would know this object anywhere: Its shape, its contours, its details, its stories. Which grandmother the Force song belongs to, even.

Hera’s kalikori.

He will pick it up, turn it over in his hands, and his joy will overwhelm him for just a moment. That’s my girl, Sabine, he’ll think.

-

Sabine will feel the heat of the explosion, and she will hear Hera screaming, Ezra screaming, and she will understand that it has to be her, that she has to act, to have a plan, because right now, they cannot.

She will feel the pulse of energy, the push of the Force against the side of the gunship, the indescribable feeling reverberating in her chest.

She will lay on the throttle, and she will pull away from the explosion, and she will feel, _hear_ , beyond all reason, his voice in her ear, as low and as deep and as calm and as easy as if her head were resting on his shoulder, on his chest, his impossibly proud rumble: That’s my girl.

You did such a good job.

That’s my girl.

-

In the handful of tense, shaky days between the destruction of the Jedi temple and their final assault on Lothal’s capital city, the days when Kanan will be gone, and Hera will be gone, running for help, getting a team together, breaking the blockade, Ezra and Sabine will suddenly be the ones in charge.

In this handful of days, Ezra will not be able to sleep normally.

One night, he will lie down with Zeb, in the circle of Zeb’s strong arms, and he will cry and think that Sabine doesn’t hear him, and the sound of his grief will break her heart.

The next, he will come to her, ask her, bashful, can I sleep with you tonight? Of course, she’ll say, of course, and he’ll lay down, loosely spooning her, an easy, lazy pose that has always brought him rest, the embrace of siblings, years of shared memories and joys and traumas in the space between their bodies.

He will wake up in the middle of the night, crying, not knowing what is real. I should have saved him, he will keep saying, I could have saved him, I should have died instead, I could have let him live, and Sabine will be scared.

Ezra! she will yell, concerned about his runaway breathing, his shaking hands. She will think about Kanan, and she will take Ezra’s wrists, get to her knees in Kanan’s meditation pose and pull Ezra to his knees in front of her. She will put his hands on her shoulders, just above her chest, and she won’t let go of Ezra’s wrists. Slow down, she will tell him, slow down, find my breath, breathe with me, that’s it, Ezra. Slow, breathe with me.

I don’t know what’s real, he will say again, tears tracking down his cheeks. I’m – the world beyond, it – he –

This is real, she will say, tightening her grip on his wrists. This is real, I’m real.

Tell me something, he will say.

Like what, she will ask.

I don’t – I don’t know, he will say. I just. I can’t stop seeing him. Over and over. I don’t know which time is real anymore. Can you just – tell me something, Sabine? Tell me something good about – about before.

Sabine will close her eyes, feeling Ezra’s pulse thumping wildly in his wrists where she grips them, and she will think, and she will feel the idea of that’s my girl you did such a good job dancing through her memories, and she will smile.

Hey, remember that time you guys tricked Kanan and switched the sugar and the salt? she will ask.

Yeah, Ezra will say, focusing on her, his breathing slowly getting calmer, less scary. I remember. Will you tell me about it? I kinda forgot you were there for that.

And Sabine will pull him in, slowly, until she can kiss his forehead, thinking intensely of Kanan. She will tug Ezra down to sit next to her, and she will let him press into her, and she will rest her chin against his temple, and she will run her fingers through his hair. Well, she will start, keeping her voice measured, thinking of Kanan. I _was_ asleep, but you guys woke me up because you were laughing so much.

I remember, he will say, closing his eyes.

Here, she will say, lay down, Ezra. Rest. I’ll tell you the story, but I want you to get some rest, okay? And she will put gentle pressure on the back of his neck, and he will go willingly under her touch, curling in a bit, his head cradled on her left thigh, her left hand in his hair. She will close her eyes, and she will send her gratitude into the Force, to Kanan’s essence, wherever it is.

Okay, she will say, it was the morning after we gave Hera the painting of the kalikori, do you remember?

Yeah, Ezra will say. I remember.

-

After all of these things, these things that Sabine encounters as she tries to put herself back together, her family and her relationships with them back together – the mask, and the hair, and the lists, and the explosion, and the tea tins, and her hangover, and the week spent painting, and the painting itself – after all of these things, it is the next day, now, the extra rest day that Commander Sato had granted them, and Sabine had intended to spend it sleeping in.

But, somehow, much to her annoyance, it’s early and she’s awake anyway, the smell of something cooking in the galley floating into her room, accompanied by bright, sharp peals of distinctively male laughter: Kanan and Ezra and Zeb and Chopper.

“Ugh,” Sabine groans up at the ceiling, but she listens to them laugh, their words indistinct, but their tone clear, and she smiles anyway. Her heart is still full from last night, from Hera’s tight embrace, from the wonder on Kanan’s face, from the security and warmth and safety they all radiated as they sat in the dejarik booth into the night, listening to Hera’s stories about her grandmothers until Ezra had started to fall asleep on Kanan’s shoulder, and Kanan and Hera had sent everyone to their own rooms to rest.

Sabine’s chest feels warm and she can’t stop smiling. She loves them all so much. Her family. Like Hera said, not by blood, but in her heart.

It’s enough.

The guys are still laughing and whatever they’re cooking smells good, and Sabine sighs. “Fine,” she says to no one, getting up, tugging an old sweatshirt on over her sleep clothes, leggings and an old t-shirt and a sports bra, and she runs her fingers through her hair, getting the tangles mostly loose, and she sets off to find out what’s so kriffing funny.

When she gets to the galley, Zeb is standing at the stove, minding pancakes; some are already on a plate next to him, and there are more that he watches in a pan on the stove. Ezra is sitting on the counter even though he’s a little too tall to fit there anymore and even though Hera would yell at him if she saw him doing it, and he’s mixing a second bowl of batter, holding the bowl in his lap. Kanan is sitting in the booth, scowling down at his cup of caf – or, at least, trying to. Sabine sees the clear smile that hides in all the lines on his face.

She flops down next to him.

“There’s our girl,” he says, fond, warm. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“You guys woke me up,” she says, bristly before her first cup of caf. “What’s so funny this early in the morning?”

Zeb and Ezra exchange a look, and they both burst out laughing again.

“Ugh,” Kanan groans dramatically, burying his face in his hands.

Chopper is heckling him, too, his own version of a laugh and muttering something like _you’re so kriffing stupid to fall for that_ , and Sabine smiles.

“Okay,” she says, “what did you guys do?”

“Zeb,” Ezra starts, and he has to set the bowl on the counter, because he can’t stop laughing. He throws his head back, and grabs his stomach, howling in mirth, and there are tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

He looks perfect, Sabine thinks, loose and expressive, and she wishes that she had her sketchbook, that she could freeze the moment, Ezra’s throat bared, his Adam’s apple bobbing in joy.

“Ah, karabast, kid, get it together, you’re gonna make me burn the pancakes,” Zeb says, still laughing, too.

“Okay, okay,” Ezra says, grinning, trying to get it together through his hysterical laugher, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, so Zeb,” and he struggles to make it through his sentence without giggling, “switched, the sweetener, with, the salt!”

“And guess who was the recipient of _that_ ,” Kanan says, scowling, but he turns to her and winks, smiling so soft and secret it hurts.

Ezra is still narrating, his laughter interrupting his voice: “So then, Kanan, ahh, he takes his first sip of caf, and he – he spits it out, all over! All over Zeb!”

Oh, Sabine sees now, Zeb’s fur all matted down on one arm, and the brown stains on his shirt, and she starts laughing, too.

“It’s not funny!” Kanan says, though he smiles, sipping what Sabine can only assume is a new, normal-tasting cup of caf. “Pranking a blind guy before his first cup of caf? Kriffing savage, is what it is.”

“It’s funny because Zeb got a taste of his own prank,” she says, desperate for her own cup of caf, crossing the room. “Move,” she says to Ezra, shoving at his hip to reach the kettle, getting out a mug and turning the kettle on and pouring the caf powder into the mug.

The boys are still laughing, and the kettle sings, and Sabine makes her cup of caf, and she sits back down with Kanan. Zeb has placed the plate of pancakes on the table, and she grabs one, the heat of it almost burning her fingertips, takes a bite. She drinks half her mug of caf and eats the entire pancake before her brain is awake enough to find the obvious answer here.

“Okay,” Sabine says, “Kanan,” and he turns to her, tilting his head. “I know what you need,” she says.

She gets up and goes to her room and finds her paintbrush and the paints she used to label the tea tins weeks ago, brings them back to her place at the table. She fetches the identical-looking sugar and salt canisters from the counter, and she sits back down.

She is halfway through the label for the sugar canister, Aurebesh that will say “kriffing sugar,” (the other, of course, will be “karking salt”) when Kanan suddenly turns his head, looking over his shoulder.

“Hey, love,” he rumbles, his voice deep and proud, and Sabine turns and sees Hera leaning in the doorway, wearing one of Kanan’s old t-shirts and her sleep leggings and what Sabine can only call, with a bit of both amusement and of embarrassment, a satisfied, well-fucked smile.

Sabine faintly hears Ezra’s feet thump to the floor as he sees Hera and jumps off the counter, but it seems that Hera’s in such a good mood, she doesn’t care.

“Morning, dear,” Hera says to Kanan, and she stretches her arms over her head. “You kids up making pancakes and having fun without mom, huh?”

Kanan grins. “I thought you said they were my kids before the sun rose.”

“But you made pancakes and didn’t bring me any,” Hera counters, wandering into the room, leaning over the back of the bench to kiss Kanan’s forehead. “Hi, sweetie,” Hera adds, turning the other way to kiss Sabine’s forehead, too.

“Hi,” Sabine says.

Hera crosses the room, makes her own cup of caf, checking in on everyone as she goes, kissing Ezra’s forehead, patting the top of Chopper’s head, giving Zeb a quick squeeze on the shoulder. She slides into the booth next to Sabine, watching as Sabine finishes up the label on the sugar canister.

“Do I want to know?” Hera asks.

“Ask Zeb and Ezra,” Kanan says, and Hera smiles.

“I see,” she says. “They can tell me later.”

“Aw, Hera,” Ezra says. “It was _so_ funny, let me tell you now.” He slides into the booth next to Kanan and tells the story again, laughing more, this time adding in a reenactment of the way Kanan spat the caf out, doubled over, his forehead pressed to the table, giggling.

“Anyway,” Kanan says, picking up the story as Ezra dissolves into laughter, running an affectionate hand over Ezra’s hair. “Sabine is an adult, unlike other people in this family –“

And he tugs on Ezra’s ear lobe, and Ezra squirms, interjecting, “Ah, don’t tickle me, Kanan!” as he flops over into Kanan’s side –

“and she very sweetly decided to make some labels for the sugar and the salt for me, just like the ones she made for the tea.”

“Very sweet,” Hera agrees, her eyes dancing with amusement and affection as she watches Ezra’s wiggles, the way he leans over onto Kanan. “You’re doing a good job on it,” she says as her eyes take in the characters. “Very unique.”

“Well,” Kanan says, smiling, laying his free hand on Sabine’s shoulder, squeezing it. “That’s our girl, you know.” 

**Author's Note:**

> this is for [brahe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brahe/pseuds/brahe), who lifts me when i'm sad and loves soft dad kanan jarrus as much as i do. ily, you beautiful soul  
> i listened to ["heavy"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OdrSSRYgfVk) on repeat for hours while writing this - it's the best space fam ballad  
> i will be yelling about rebels and stanning for kanan and hera's healthy 10-year-long marriage and happy family on [tumblr](https://inconocible.tumblr.com/) for the rest of my existence
> 
> i had to edit this note to add that tinylittleweirdo on tumblr MADE ART FOR ME for this fic, i'm screaming, no one has ever made unsolicited art for me. they [illustrated sabine's tea and salt and sugar containers](https://tinylittleweirdo.tumblr.com/post/171904003154/inconocible-the-pantry-of-the-ghost-with-the) :)


End file.
